


junkie reveries

by TheDawnHarbinger



Category: Trainspotting (Movies), Trainspotting Series - Irvine Welsh
Genre: Copious amounts of drugs, Drugged Sex, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, everyone is a bit in love with mark, lets face it lads, too many drugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23850466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDawnHarbinger/pseuds/TheDawnHarbinger
Summary: six different drugs, six different love affairs.
Relationships: Daniel "Spud" Murphy/Mark "Rent Boy" Renton, Francis "Franco" Begbie/Mark "Rent Boy" Renton, Mark "Rent Boy" Renton/Johnny "Mother Superior" Swanney, Mark "Rent Boy" Renton/Rab "Second Prize" McLaughlin, Mark "Rent Boy" Renton/Simon "Sick Boy" Williamson, Mark "Rent Boy" Renton/Thomas "Tommy" MacKenzie
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	1. spud + ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

> who has two thumbs and a ridiculous amount of unfinished trainspotting wips? this girl.

The music in the club is blasting so loudly that Mark _feels_ it more than he hears it – it’s transcended the realm of sound and become something heavenly, something alive, and it’s reverberating through his rib cage like a heartbeat. Not particularly feeling the party atmosphere this evening, he’s found a seat on one of the long leather banquettes at the back of the club and is waiting patiently for the ecstasy to kick before he ventures out onto the crowded dance floor. The pill’s left a bitter, chemical taste lingering on his tongue and he washes it down with another swallow of vodka, idly scanning the darkened room for his friends. He spots Tommy over by the bar, engaged in earnest conversation with a few youths in football jackets, but can’t see Sick Boy (probably gone off with a girl or two) or Begbie (probably battering some poor cunt in the alley outside) anywhere. Spud is hanging around the edge of the dance floor, doing an odd little shuffle that could probably be charitably described as dancing. When Mark catches his eye and gives him a little nod, he makes his way over right away.

“Alright, catboy?” he says, looking even more disheveled than usual, his narrow face flushed and his grin wide and eager. Blissful. He ignores the seat next to Mark and falls right into him instead, spilling into his lap and giggling an apology. Hurrying to steady him (and narrowly avoiding getting a sharp, bony elbow in the face for his trouble), Mark can’t be sure if the move was a deliberate one or simply a consequence of being too intoxicated to stay upright. 

Not that he’s complaining, mind you.

“Stop flailing around a minute, Spud, and just— fuck, watch where yir knee’s going, alright?” 

With some difficulty and several false starts, they manage to work themselves around into a marginally more comfortable position, with Mark sitting back and Spud straddling his lap. And Spud might not be the most comfortable person one could pick to have a wee cuddle with, being mostly composed of sharp edges and protruding bones, but he makes up for it by being warm and enthusiastic and eager, pressing against Mark like he’s trying to sink clean into him. Not to mention the fact that he weighs practically nothing – a consequence of the heroin-induced appetite loss which has afflicted all of them. Even in the dim lighting of the club, Mark can see that his friend’s pupils are blown wide, and he suspects that he’s not the only one who’s experiencing a bit of drug-induced joy.

He grins up at Spud, feeling the ecstasy begin to spark through his system, surging electric through his veins. “Enjoying yirself?” 

“Aye, it’s...it’s pure magic, likesay,” slurs Spud, and he’s even more incoherent than usual, nearly unintelligible, but Mark doesn’t mind; floating in the chemical sea, he feels nothing but an endless and overpowering affection for his friend. “Ah mean, ah’m really feeling sortay _cosmic_ , here. Like, wir aw oot in space. Like David Bowie, ken?”

“Right. David Bowie,” Mark agrees automatically, because there _does_ seem to be a curious logic to it, as he stares at the other’s eyes and thinks about black holes, constellations, distant night-worlds unseen and unvisited. About falling through some hole in the stratosphere and drifting endlessly through the galaxy, just like David Bowie. _Planet Earth is blue, and there’s nothing I can do—_

Just a regular space oddity. 

Eventually, he comes back down to earth with the startling realization that he’s getting a little hard – either as a consequence of the drugs or of Spud’s overwhelming warmth – and squirms, trying surreptitiously to readjust his position. Oblivious, Spud babbles on above him, the words spilling out in a rush as he meanders erratically from thought to thought. “—and in a way, we sortay _are_ in space, so it makes sense, ken? Only wir jist going around in circles, likesay, just around and around and—” (and his hands brush down the front of Mark’s threadbare t-shirt, pressing flat against his ribs) “—it’s like wir aw jist along for a ride, Rents, ken what ah mean?”

He doesn’t quite trust himself to speak, but he hums in agreement, which seems to delight Spud – looking positively fascinated, he chases the reverberations of it across Mark’s chest and then dips his head down, nuzzling against his neck. 

“ _Jesus_ , Spud,” Mark breathes, jackknifing upright and then immediately regretting it, because now Spud is grinding down against him a bit, and he’s hard as fuck and his veins are burning up, _he’s_ burning up. Surreptitiously, he steals a glance around the club (he’s struck with the sudden disquieting idea of Begbie coming across them like this), but the music is still pounding and the disco lights are still blazing and nobody seems to be paying them much attention, tucked away as they are in the shadows. _Well, why not? When you get right down tae it, why the fuck not?_

Humming to himself, filled with a sense of giddy purpose, Mark skims his fingers down his friend's chest, tracing a nipple and giving it a little tweak. Best to test the waters, considering the circumstances. He's encouraged in his efforts by a quiet yelp. "Aye, that's, eh— that's barry, man. Jist dae it again, jist keep touching us...it's eh, like ah'm pure feeling it all _over_..."

Mark repeats the experiment and, this time, is rewarded by a corresponding twitch of Spud's hips. The ecstasy is kicking in now in earnest, filling him with an incredible sensation of lightness; he's ceased to feel the leather of the seat under him or feel the weight of his own body. They're floating now, both of them are, and he's suddenly struck by the sheer beauty of his friend. It's absurd, but Spud – skinny, snottery, sticky-fingered Spud with his daft smile and even dafter ideas – is breathtaking. In the flickering club lights, he doesn't even look particularly human. A transcendent thing, like the music. Mark runs his fingertips along the line of one sharp collarbone and then reaches up to touch Spud's lips, marveling at the sensation of hot breath against his skin. "You know, ah'm thinking you've got a point," he remarks, more to articulate his own jumbled, drug-fueled thoughts than anything else. Spud has patently stopped listening, too busy squirming and gasping against him. "Wir aw along for the ride together, aren't we? So it seems tae me like we might as well enjoy it, right?"

Above him, Spud is nodding distractedly, looking increasingly frantic – not a particularly _attentive_ audience, but an eager one. In his intoxicated condition, it takes him whole seconds to fumble the front of Mark's jeans open and, when he finally manages it, he wastes no time in plunging his hand right in. It's haphazard, horribly clumsy, but the feeling of Spud's fingers closing around his already-hard cock is still enough to send a jolt down Mark's spine. Even the clumsiness of the act strikes him as oddly arousing, under the circumstances. The _enthusiasm_ of it. He's been on the receiving end of better handjobs, but he can't remember the last time someone seemed so hungry to touch him. He stares up at Spud, thinking again about constellations and David Bowie and snatches of songs which he can't quite remember, and feels his breath catch in his throat as a sudden jerk of the wrist has _exactly_ the right effect. " _Danny_ —"

Looking vaguely pleased with himself, Spud grins, ducking his head bashfully. He's kissing at Mark's neck again as he tugs at his cock and mumbling nonsense between the kisses, so that it's all wet and warm and incredibly sloppy. It's easily the messiest bit of necking Mark's experienced since he was about fifteen years old. It's truly embarrassing how much it's turning him on.

Gradually, it dawns on him that it might be turning him on a little _too_ much – that, between Spud's earnest efforts and the drugs sizzling in his veins, he's starting to tip perilously close to the edge. He feels a sudden stirring of self-consciousness. Paranoia. He can't come in his jeans like this, getting jerked off out in the open where anybody could wander by and see. Hastily, he nudges at his friend's shoulder, trying to push him away.

Spud’s breath is almost painfully hot against his neck as he pulls back a little, frowning in bemusement. He's still rubbing at Mark, still teasing him – almost absentmindedly, like he's forgotten that he's doing it at all. There's a flush of colour high on his cheeks, striking against his pale skin. “Eh, what’s wrong, Rents?”

“Fuck, Spud,” he manages, batting ineffectually at the other’s hands. “Stop it or ah’m gaunnae come!”

Spud stares at him, all bleary-eyed and dazed. “You don’t want tae?”

"Not _here_ , you cunt."

With a little difficulty, Mark dislodges his friend from his lap (Spud yelps in protest, barely managing to keep himself from going sprawling across the floor) and stands, quickly buttoning his jeans. If they're going to finish this somewhere more private, it's clear that _he's_ going to have to be the one to take the initiative. He might not be thinking quite clearly, addled as he is by the pulse of the MDMA through his brain, but Spud doesn't even look like he's on the same planet at this point. He's standing at Mark's side now, swaying slightly, eyes closed and head tilted back. Blissed out of his mind, drifting through the distant reaches of the galaxy. 

"Come on," Mark tells him, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him, tripping and stumbling, through the crowded club.

It's all dissolving into a fever dream, all pulsing lights and blurring silhouettes. Still no sign of Begbie, but he thinks he catches a glimpse of Sick Boy in the far corner, engaged in chatting up yet another girl. For once, he doesn't feel even the slightest bit jealous. _We're_ all _getting lucky the night, eh, lads?_ He means to head for the gents’, for the relative privacy of an empty stall, but they get turned around somehow and end up in the cloakroom of the club instead, which is small and cramped and littered with boots and jackets. But it’s fine, it’s good enough, it’s fucking _perfect_ , because as soon as they get through the door, he’s shoving Spud back against the nearest wall and Spud is _kissing_ him, kissing down his neck, kissing him so hungrily that it's more than Mark can bear. That same frantic energy is gripping him as he gets the front of Spud's ratty jeans open and yanks down his keks. As he goes dropping to his knees on the tiles.

"Oh," says Spud, gawping down at him, wide-eyed. His hands fidget uncertainly with the hem of his shirt, fingers knotting in the fabric. "Mark, there's, eh, nae need...ah mean, only if you want tae, but—"

_If I want tae._ "Believe me, Danny, ah want tae." 

Mark wastes no more time, tugging Spud's drawers out of the way and leaning in to take the other man's cock in his mouth. _Inhales_ it, practically. Inhalants and injections, stimulants and depressants, opioids and hallucinogens – they've done it all together, him and Spud, comrades in intoxication. And, now that he thinks about it, isn't this just one more sort of drug? One more fucked up wee trip, both of them panting and gasping together in the dark, waiting for the blessed high. Thrilled by the notion, he gets a firm grip around the base of Spud's cock and licks eagerly at the head. Relishes the taste of it on his tongue, as chemical and strange as the ecstasy had been.

"— _knew_ it, Mark," Spud is slurring, his head thrown back against the wall. He doesn't quite seem to know what to do with his hands; they flutter, indecisive, in the air and then go drumming against his sides, keeping time with the music. " _Knew_ you'd understand, how wir— wir pure in this together, man, me and you. Wir oot in space, jist the two ay us, see, and they cannae touch us now, they _cannae_..."

Listening to him babble, Mark thinks he understands. As he shoves his hand down to touch himself and, still licking and mouthing desperately at Spud's cock, feels it twitch on his tongue. As he hears Spud's slightly-too-late warning ("Mark, man, ah'm gaunnae—") and chokes, spitting the salt taste of it onto the tiles. He understands. He does. The ecstasy has lifted them up, carried them away. And now, as they go floating through space, strung out and breathless and lighter than air, all they have left to hold on to is each other.


	2. sick boy + cocaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuse for how long this took to post, except for my own incompetence and procrastination. still, have a messy, awful chapter for some messy, awful boys.

“Honestly, Si, ah’m just not sure about this.”

“Listen, I bought this from Dawsey, when we were down to watch the fitba. He says it’s pure as fuck, too. The genuine real deal.”

Mark remains sceptical, watching with arms crossed and eyebrows arched as Sick Boy carefully cuts the powder into a line across their kitchen counter. It looks clean and startlingly white against the linoleum, nothing at all like the dingy brownish colour of good, honest heroin. “Dawsey knows as much about hard drugs as he knows about performing brain surgery. Ah’ll bet you anything he’s gone and sold you a bag of fucking icing sugar.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

Mark feels a sting of petty jealousy as he watches Sick Boy finish laying out the cocaine and then, in one swift movement, inhaling. He’s _good_ at it, makes it look stylish and easy and even a little bit dashing, and it’s thoroughly irritating. Up until now, _Mark_ has been the acknowledged expert when it comes to drugs of all sorts. He’s highly reluctant to admit that Sick Boy might be a trifle more experienced with this particular narcotic. “Aye, well, not tae cast aspersions on Dawsey’s credentials as a drug-dealer, but what if the stuff’s tainted? What if he’s fucked up and mixed in amphetamines or strychnine or fuck-knows-what? Ah dinnae want tae end up in the hospital because ah’ve snorted speed or something.”

Sick Boy waves him off distractedly. “Who exactly do you think you’re talking to here, Mark? _Spud?_ You’re daein drugs wi a bona fide master, alright? Honestly, ah’m being exceptionally generous, allowing you tae share the fruit of _my_ hard-earned spoils, and ah would have expected at least a wee bit of _gratitude,_ considering that—”

He’s working himself up into a proper fit of righteous indignation. Caught up in his own eloquence again. Aware that Sick Boy’s speeches can go on for quite some time, Mark gives in and leans down over the counter to take his turn at the cocaine. He fucks it up, only gets about two thirds of the line and leaves the rest of the powder scattered on the countertop, and has to struggle not to sneeze the rest out again. Sick Boy snickers. “Not bad for an amateur effort.”

Mark wipes his nose on the sleeve of his jacket, blinking hard as his eyes begin to water, and then flaps an impatient hand. “Get tae fuck. Cut us another line – I want tae try it again.”

“Sure, and have a nice fucking seizure on the kitchen floor? Slow down a bit, Rents. You’ll be feeling it in a minute or two.”

He’s laughing, _laughing_ , and Mark feels the heat begin to rise to his cheeks as embarrassment grips him. Irritated, he gives Sick Boy a shove, but that only seems to make the other man laugh harder, his dark eyes bright and his face flushed. They push at each other ineffectually, a half-hearted struggle. Mark opens his mouth to tell him to fuck off, but there’s something curiously infectious about his friend’s mirth – his anger falters, ebbs away, and he manages a reluctant grin. The heat is in his chest now, burning away behind his ribs like hot coals and warming him right down to the tips of his fingers. “Christ—” he begins, reaching up to scrub at his face with his hands. There’s sweat on his skin, sweat sticking his shirt slick to him. “Ah’m burning up, ah’m— _Christ_ , Si.”

Sick Boy’s laughter has finally faded. He presses his lips together, superior and knowing. “Alright, there, Rents? Just take some deep breaths, just—”

But Mark isn’t listening. It isn’t _bad_ , this strange new warmth. He’s feeling alright. _Better_ than alright – all of a sudden, he’s feeling nearly ecstatic. The sensation reminds him of the first few times that he’d taken heroin, back when shooting up had been something exciting and new, not just a way to escape the agony of withdrawal. But heroin deadens you, turns the world foggy and blurred, and this is entirely different. Suddenly, everything seems sharp and crystal clear. He’s never been more awake in his entire life, he’s never been more _alive_ , he’s never—

Sick Boy is grinning at him. “Good?”

“It’s brilliant,” says Mark, and grins back at him, wide and idiotic. “It’s fucking _magic_.”

They’re both talking too loudly in the quiet of the little kitchen, nearly yelling at each other, but Mark finds that he doesn’t care at all. Why should he? He’s on top of the world, he’s flying high, and he’s soaring so far through the stratosphere that nobody can touch him. He’s above them all. Suddenly, it dawns on him that he’s getting an unexpected insight into Sick Boy’s state of mind – his infuriating cockiness, his detachment, his devil-may-care pretensions. Suddenly, it’s all perfectly clear. Of _course_ the fucker’s always so full of himself. How could he _not_ be, when he’s got all this pure white lightning crackling through his system? 

“I _told_ you!” Sick Boy crows, triumphant. In an instant, his hands are warm on Mark’s shoulders and then they’re spinning, turning, whirling around the kitchen together in a mad, wild dance. “I _told_ you it was good, didn’t I? When have I ever fucking steered you wrong, Mark? When have I ever let you down?”

“Never,” says Mark, breathless from laughing, as he trips over a chair and goes staggering, dragging Sick Boy after him, “never, you’ve never—” (and he’s lying now, lying through his teeth, but it’s) “—let me down, Si, you’ve—” (like he’s not even) “—never. Fuck, Simon, I fucking—” (hearing himself at all, it’s all just) “—love you, I do, I fucking—” (words, it’s nonsense, it’s just _words_ ) “—love you, you know.”

His back hits the wall, the plaster cool against his feverish skin. Sick Boy follows, surging in against him, his hands gripping the front of Mark’s jacket. “You see now why ah wanted tae share it with _you,_ Mark? Not Spud, not Dawsey, none of those other fuckers—ah wouldn’t have given _any_ tae them. They wouldn’t _understand_ it, nae fucking vision, nae fucking poetry, just a bunch of no-hopers dragging us both down. But you and me, we’ve fucking _got_ it, haven’t we?” 

“Aye, we’ve got it,” Mark agrees mindlessly. Standing this close, barely an inch apart, he can see every detail of Sick Boy’s awful, beautiful face; dark eyes, dark lashes. Pretty in the worst possible way. Mark wants to hit him or kiss him or maybe both at once, but his thoughts are racing much too quickly to make up his mind which. Desperate and giddy, he babbles helplessly, talking about the cocaine, about Sick Boy, about the heat frying his brain. All nonsense. Just noise. It’s loud in his head, too loud, and he has to keep talking, has to drown out all the fucking _noise_.

Sick Boy quiets him with a finger pressed to his lips. The gentleness of it is startling. “It’s alright, Mark,” he says. The tone strikes Mark as familiar; it’s the pitched-slightly-deeper, man-of-action voice he sometimes uses when he’s going after girls. Film star voice. It’s maddening. “I’ve got you, haven’t I? I know what you want better than you do. I know _you_ better than you do.”

“Get tae fuck. You _don’t_.”

“No?”

Part of him is expecting it, but it’s still enough to take his breath away – the scrape of fabric against fabric as Sick Boy nudges his legs apart, slides a knee in between. Mark can’t stand looking at him, at that triumphant smile, and so he leans in quickly to kiss him instead. It’s just to stop him from talking, but Sick Boy responds quite readily, his tongue darting teasingly across Mark’s lips. He’s infuriatingly good at _this_ , too. Impatient, Mark pushes down on him, grinding hard against this persistent pursuer, and is rewarded by a corresponding jolt of pleasure. _White light,_ he thinks distractedly, breathless and reeling as a gasp escapes him. _Is this what it’s_ always _like for you, Si? Is this the way it is?_

For a few moments, they’re both too fucked to do anything more than push at each other blindly, and Mark wonders if he’ll be able to get off from this alone. Just from the man’s breath against his cheek, the birdlike beat of his heart. Then Sick Boy’s hand is on him, slipping down past the waistband of his jeans to grip his cock, and the entire world speeds up. Shatters into a thousand lightning-quick shards. Speeds past him.

His own fingers trailing down the pale, downy-soft skin of Sick Boy’s stomach and then, lower, _lower,_ to take the other man in hand. The slick slide as they both try and fail to find a rhythm, too coked-up to even think about slowing down. Sick Boy’s mouth on his neck, his eyes bright with triumph as he bites down, teasing. ( _D’you like that, Mark? Just a little souvenir, just a little something tae remember me by. A present. From Simon with love.)_

“Shut up,” Mark tells him, although he’s not sure if Sick Boy has actually _said_ anything or if he’s only imagined it. Then something goes taut in his stomach and he has to close his eyes, knocking his head back against the plaster, because the heat crackling under his skin is unbearable and he’s burning, he’s dying, and—

“No,” says Sick Boy, who has somehow heard him. “You aren’t, Rents.”

Then he changes the rhythm of his stroke, turns his wrist in _just_ the right way, and Mark feels the orgasm tear through him like an electric current. Legs turning to water, he has to lean back against the wall to keep himself upright. His other hand is still employed in rubbing at Sick Boy’s cock and it’s only when his friend makes a faint noise of irritation and pushes him away that he realizes that he isn’t the only one to have come. As the high fades and the heat recedes, Mark wonders idly which of them had gotten to the proverbial climax first. He wonders which would be better – to have achieved satisfaction first, or to be the more skillful lover? _Little competitions, little victories_. 

Now Sick Boy is easing away from him, drifting across the kitchen to wipe his hand clean on a bit of dishcloth. Something pale glistens on his fingers. _The stuff of lightning_ , Mark thinks, dazed. _Scalding. It should have burnt his fingers._

Sick Boy tosses him the rag. “There. How was _that_ for an experience?”

“Not bad.”

“Want tae have another line?”

At last, he gives in to gravity, slipping down the wall until he’s sitting crouched on the tiles. The best part of the cocaine high has faded, leaving him feeling restless and a little sick. Like his skin doesn’t quite fit him anymore. He scratches at his arm, uncertain. “No, ah think ah’ll be sticking tae heroin, thanks. It’s alright, this stuff, but it’s still no exactly my cup of tea.”

“Suit yourself,” says Sick Boy easily. Then, glancing down at him, eyebrows raised and grinning; “By the way, Mark, what was all that you were saying before? Something about how I've never steered you wrong, wasn't it? About how much you loved me?”

Mark looks up at him with glassy indifference, feeling the last bit of warmth drain from his soul. He’s cold now. Cold and sick to his bones. “You must have imagined it. Ah never said anything like that at all.”


	3. tommy + speed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> astdmff, watch me update twice in one day to procrastinate doing psych labs. thank you so much, everyone who's commented or left kudos! i really appreciate it! <3 have a bleak little chapter and, um, don't do drugs, kids!

“—asking you tae be reasonable!”

“It isnae about being _reasonable_ , Tommy, it’s about having some common decency! It's about being fucking considerate! Honestly, ever since you started hanging around so much with that crowd of yours, that Renton and all his mates, it’s like you’re a different fucking person!”

He’s been drifting in and out for a while, still high as a kite from the hit he’d had before coming over, but the mention of his name catches Mark’s interest and draws his attention back to the argument going on in the next room. It had started out quietly, conducted in furiously-hushed whispers, but now the volume is quickly escalating. He props himself up against the kitchen counter and rubs his eyes, trying to jolt himself back into reality as he listens.

“Come on, Lizzie, they’re _my_ mates too and aw! And they’re not that bad, you know—”

“They’re a bunch of useless junkie fuck ups, is what they are.”

Privately, Mark has to admit that there _is_ a certain undeniable truth to Lizzie’s words. If asked, he and Sick Boy and Spud would probably all have difficulty describing themselves as anything _but_ useless junkie fuck ups. Really, it’s quite a fair assessment.

The problem is, he reflects, that Lizzie is clever and stunningly attractive and most likely has a promising future ahead of her once she finishes studying art at her college. She’s too good to be hanging around with people like them. To be killing time in seedy pubs and spending nights in clubs where the floors are always sticky with piss and littered with used needles. Going to all the places you only go if you want to get drunk and don’t mind contracting a venereal disease in the process. Come to think of it, _Tommy_ is too good for all of that, as well. Much too good.

An instant later, his musings are interrupted when Lizzie appears in the doorway, flush-faced and furious, her scowl turning murderous as she catches sight of Mark (suspect number one when it comes to 'useless junkie fuck ups') standing in her kitchen. He grins and gives her a jaunty little salute. In the bright afternoon light, the fresh track marks on his arm aren’t a pleasant sight – all peeling skin and weeping sores and sickly, greenish bruises. He can only imagine what the rest of him must look like.

Lizzie’s lips are pressed so tightly together that they’ve gone white, faded to a thin and bloodless line. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Ah came around tae watch a video," he says, holding the tape up for her to see. _First Blood_ , it’s called; a suitably brutal action flick, tolerable to watch when you’re _just_ the right shade of bombed out of your skull. Mark had picked it at random, stopping by one of the few video shops that _hadn’t_ banned him for shoplifting. More than anything, he’d really just wanted an excuse to come and visit Tommy. It’s been over a week since they’d last seen each other and Mark has spent most of that time laying on the floor of Swanney’s flat, drifting aimlessly on the tide that carries him from injection to injection. 

"Don't you have a telly at home?"

"We _did_ , but me and Sick Boy sold it tae buy ourselves mair skag," Mark says cheerfully, unable to resist fibbing in order to wind her up. In truth, their television set broke down a few weeks ago, expiring from natural causes, and Spud just hasn't gotten around to stealing them a new one yet. "You know how it is, eh?"

She stalks past him, throwing him one last contemptuous glance as she crosses the little kitchen and goes out into the hall. A second later, he hears the flat door slam shut behind her. He knows it’s not fair, being a perfect cunt to Lizzie like this. She doesn’t deserve any of the havoc that they’re all wreaking on her life. Still, it sounds as if she and Tommy are at odds again, and he feels a certain obligation to take his friend’s side.

Tommy is standing in the doorway now, his handsome face twisted into an apologetic grimace. “Alright, man? Thanks for, um— for coming over and aw.”

“Seems like ah might’ve picked a bad time.”

“What? Oh, no, it’s—” Tommy begins hesitantly, and Mark can practically _see_ the internal struggle going on in his head. He’s too kind to properly slag Lizzie off behind her back, to heap abuse on her like some of the others do with _their_ girlfriends ( _fucking frigid wee whore, you wouldnae believe what she said tae us this morning, what she did),_ but he's still dying to vent his frustrations. He rubs at his eyes, rakes his fingers through his hair, and then lets out a quiet breath. “It’s fine. Mark. She’s— she’s a lovely girl, you know. It’s just we…”

“Aye, Lizzie’s grand. It’s just a wee rough patch you’re having, right?”

“Right,” says Tommy, still looking a little disconcerted. “Right. Well, did you bring the video? If you want tae go ahead and put it on, I could get us some drinks and we can—”

“Or maybe ah could take your mind off things a bit first?” Mark suggests, lips cracking into a dry cadaver’s grin. With a halfhearted flourish, he produces a little foil packet from the pocket of his jeans and then, seeing the concern on Tommy’s face, adds; “You dinnae have tae look so worried, Tam. It’s only speed. Do you not want any?”

“Mark, it’s three o’clock.”

But tedious, unending summer afternoons are what speed was _made_ for. Mark knows it and he can see that Tommy does too, as – in spite of his protests – he accepts the foil and takes his share of the chalky methamphetamine within. Watching him closely, Mark notices that Tommy doesn’t so much as wince at the bitter taste as the powder dissolves on his tongue. _Quite familiar to him by now_. Considering how fond he is of giving lectures about the evils of heroin, the man is thoroughly accustomed to other, more common drugs. 

For a few minutes, they share the packet in a companionable silence, and then Tommy speaks up. With irritation, Mark recognizes the all-too-familiar expression of sincerity on his face. _Not now. Not fucking now_.

“Listen,” Tommy begins, painfully earnest, “ah’ve been meaning tae have a talk with you. Ah saw Spud yesterday, down by the shopping centre, and he was just fucking oot of it. Staggering around the place like a zombie, absolutely bombed, full right up tae the eyeballs on skag or whatever. He didnae even recognize me at first.”

“Aye, but Spud’s always been sortay—”

“Not like this. It’s one thing if _you_ want tae keep doing heroin, sure, but aren’t you at least worried aboot what might happen to _him?_ The boy’s gaunnae do himself an injury and you’re only encouraging him…”

“Fine, ah’ll have a word with Spud,” says Mark, lying through his teeth. _Anything_ to get Tommy to stop talking about it. To stop looking at him with that awful, stifling concern. 

“You know ah’m only saying it because ah’m worried, man.”

Pointedly, Mark looks away. “We should’ve snorted the speed, you know. It takes so much longer tae hit when you just swallow it doon. Still, we’ve got enough time now tae…”

“Tae _what?_ ”

Stretching and stifling a yawn, Mark considers the matter for a moment. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon on a tedious day at the end of an even _more_ tedious week, and he’s feeling tired and stiff and only marginally less strung out than the unfortunate Spud had been at the shopping centre yesterday. And Tommy is standing there in front of him. _Tommy_ . Solid and warm and unbearably clean. Tommy, who – even after getting into a miserable quarrel with his girlfriend – is still kind enough to care about the well-being of his junkie fuck up friends. Tommy, who is good and has somehow deluded himself into believing that _Mark_ must be good too.

He'd be sorely tempted to laugh, if it wasn’t all so awful.

“This,” he says, and reaches down to fumble at the zip of Tommy’s jeans.

Even when he’s pushed away, it’s infuriatingly gentle. Tommy’s hands rest feather-light on his shoulders, holding him at a firm distance. “Mark, you’re just not thinking straight. Let's just watch the video, alright? We can just watch the video, we can just…”

But Mark persists, twisting away and then pressing forward again with a growing desperation. “Come on, you dinnae even have to _do_ anything. Ah’ll sort it all oot. Come on, it’ll take your mind off of everything with Lizzie.”

“Mark—”

“Come on, Tam, come _on_.”

Finally ( _predictably_ ), Tommy gives in to him, leaning back against the kitchen counter as Mark drops to his knees on the stained tiles. It’s a relief, in a way, to perform the act while kneeling. Considerably easier than standing up, when he’s feeling so fucked and useless. Still, it’s not his best work. He’s tightly wound and out of control at the same time, and his technique suffers accordingly – once or twice, he hears a little pained gasp from Tommy as, fumbling, he forgets to keep his teeth tucked safely behind his lips. He’s too skagged-up to get properly aroused and his own cock is refusing to take any interest in the proceedings; he absentmindedly rubs at himself through the front of his jeans, but only succeeds in making himself feel queasy and sore.

When the speed kicks in, it’s a mixed blessing. Mark’s mind sharpens and everything comes clean into focus, a fresh alertness settling over him as the methamphetamine sings through his system. But now, alert, he has to actually _listen_ to what Tommy is saying up above him. An incoherent rush of words, a mix of affection for the absent Lizzie and guilt over betraying her like this. And Mark has to listen to his _own_ guilt, his own internal monologue of fucked misery, which is just as unpleasant.

“—really is such a lovely girl, Mark, and ah should have, ah should have—” ( _ah’m sorry, Tommy_ ) “gone after her, but you know how it is, man, she won’t let me get a word in, but—” ( _ah’m sorry, ah’m really sorry_ ) “when she gets back, ah’ll tell her ah’m—” ( _SORRY_ ) “and ah really do love her, Mark, and ah think she—” ( _used to think you were my best mate, but_ ) “because this is fucked, this is wrong, sure, but it’s not really betraying her, because—” ( _ah’ve fucked it all up between us, ah’m sorry, sorry_ ) “because ah’m being true to her in _thought_ , in spirit, in fucking _love_ , and that’s what counts, isn’t it?” ( _so sorry, so_ ) “Isn’t it, Mark? Mark?” ( _fucking_ ) “Mark, I’m—” ( _sorry_ ) “Mark—”

And it goes on and on, the speed muddling everything together until Mark can’t tell the difference between Tommy’s words and his own thoughts, until finally, _mercifully_ , Tommy pushes him away and comes – messy and gasping for breath – across the tiles. _Thinking of me or thinking of Lizzie?_ Watching him, Mark doesn’t know whether to be satisfied with his own handiwork ( _mouthywork_ ) or jealous of his friend’s pleasure; _he’s_ stayed pathetically unaroused throughout. Even the aphrodisiac effect of the methamphetamine hasn’t been enough to counter the damage that heroin has done to him.

With a slightly awkward air, Tommy looks down at him. “Listen, d’you not want me to—?”

“It’s fine,” Mark tells him quickly, still racing a mile a minute as the speed carries him onward, and cracks another agonized grin. Maybe he’ll rub one out later, thinking about how Tommy looked when he came, or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll go back to Swanney’s and sink a needle so deep into his veins that it might make him forget Tommy completely. For now, he just doesn't want to think about it at all. “It’s fine, it’s great. Come on, clean yourself up and— and we can just watch the fucking film, right? Come _on_.”


End file.
